In this sequence of regenerations, GPT-3 (see below for later versions), the latest iteration of OpenAI’s powerful text generating language model, completes James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake (1939), first using the initial sentence of the original as a prompt, then working from the final words. Cunningly, the third version of the opening picks up the unstopped ending, endorsing the standard view of the Wake’s circularity. As I argue in Artefacts of Writing, the final words can also be read as opening onto the blank space remaining on the final printed page, leaving room for us, or GPT-3, to continue in our/its own way. As cunningly, the final version (8) of the ending takes us back to the beginning, mimicking version 3. In my view, version 7 is the most moving, given the way Finnegans Wake actually ends (with ALP contemplating death as an joyceanic release from a difficult life). That said, version 4 is also a pretty good description of what a bio-cultural intelligence might ideally think after reading the Wake (see What is creative criticism?).
Does this mean GPT-3 heralds the advent of a post-human world of reading and writing? The computer scientist, Douglas Summers-Stay, an early GPT-3 researcher, gave an engagingly apt and cautionary answer in 2020:
GPT is odd because it doesn’t ‘care’ about getting the right answer to a question you put to it. It’s more like an improv actor who is totally dedicated to their craft, never breaks character, and has never left home but only read about the world in books. Like such an actor, when it doesn’t know something, it will just fake it. You wouldn’t trust an improv actor playing a doctor to give you medical advice.
See Gary Marcus and Ernest Davis, ‘GPT-3, Bloviator: OpenAI’s language generator has no idea what it’s talking about‘, MIT Technology Review, 22 August 2020; and for another early assessment of GPT-3’s capabilities, see Luciano Floridi and Massimo Chiriatti Massimo, ‘GPT‐3: Its Nature, Scope, Limits, and Consequences‘, 1 November 2020, revised March 2022. For the best account of how these large language models (LLMs) work, see Stephen Wolfram, ‘What Is ChatGPT Doing … and Why Does It Work?‘, 14 February 2023; and for a detailed assessment of the next generation, GPT-4, see Sébastien Bubeck, et. al, ‘Sparks of Artificial General Intelligence: Early experiments with GPT-4‘, 22 March 2023.
GPT-4o (2024)
Riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodious vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs. In the shadow of the ancient fortress, nestled amidst rolling hills and echoing with the whispers of bygone eras, we find the village of Howth, where the old meets the new in a harmonious dance.
At dawn, the market square bustles with life, vendors setting up stalls laden with fresh produce, handmade crafts, and tales from distant lands. Children chase each other around the castle grounds, their laughter mingling with the morning birdsong. The villagers, bound by a shared history, greet each other with warm smiles and familiar nods, their lives interwoven like the threads of a rich tapestry.
As the sun climbs higher, casting a golden glow over the bay, the fishermen return with their catch, their boats bobbing gently in the harbor. The scent of saltwater and freshly caught fish fills the air, a testament to the village’s enduring connection to the sea. Families gather for a midday meal, sharing stories of the past and dreams of the future, their voices rising and falling in a rhythmic chorus.
In the afternoon, the castle itself comes alive, its stone walls whispering secrets to those who listen. Visitors wander through its halls, marveling at the ancient artifacts and imagining the lives of those who once called it home. The guide, an elderly man with a twinkle in his eye, recounts legends of bravery and love, each tale a thread in the fabric of the village’s history.
As evening approaches, the village slows, bathed in the soft hues of twilight. The river, ever faithful, continues its journey, reflecting the fading light of day. The villagers gather once more, this time around a bonfire, sharing laughter, music, and stories that span generations. The flames dance in the night, a symbol of the enduring spirit of Howth.
And so, as the river winds its way back to the bay, the cycle begins anew, a testament to the unending flow of time and the enduring legacy of a village that remains ever connected to its past, present, and future.
GPT-4o attempts the same task ‘in the style of the Wake’:
Riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodious vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs. Hark! In the gloaming, a murmuration of voices, echoing through the ages, intertwines like the strands of an ancient tapestry, weaving tales both grand and humble.
The castle, craggy and timeworn, looms in the twilight, its stones whispering secrets of yore. Once more, the riverrun, ever-turning, winding past, carries the lore of the ancients, a cyclical recitation of triumph and tribulation. HCE and ALP, eternal archetypes, dance their ceaseless reel, their identities fluxing in the moon’s silvery glow.
Lo! In the village square, amidst the cacophony of barter and banter, vendors hawk their wares, fruits of earth and sea, tokens of toil and tradition. The children, sprites of the dawn, frolic and caper, their laughter ringing like bells in the crisp morning air. History, a living stream, flows through their veins, uniting past and present in a harmonious cadence.
As Phoebus ascends, casting gilded rays upon the waters, the fisherfolk return, their nets brimming with Neptune’s bounty. The scent of the brine, mingled with the aroma of bread fresh-baked, fills the air, an olfactory symphony. Families gather ’round, their voices a gentle susurrus, sharing repast and reverie, tales of once and future glories.
Aftnoon light wanes, shadows lengthen ‘cross castle’s hallowed halls. Visitors, pilgrims of curiosity, traverse its storied corridors, guided by the ancient one, the griot of stone and lore. Hearken to the legends of valor and amour, spun from the loom of time, each thread a tale unto itself, each knot a mystery.
Eventide descends, the village ensconced in twilight’s embrace. The river, steadfast, mirrors the dimming sky, an endless flow of memory and foretelling. Gather they by the fire, kin and kindred, their faces aglow with the flicker of flame, their voices a chorus of ages. The night, a canvas for dreams, unfolds its starlit tapestry, a reminder of the eternal dance, the ceaseless journey of river and man.
Thus, in the ever-turning wheel of life, the riverrun flows on, a testament to the enduring spirit of Howth, where past and present meld, and the future unfurls in a perpetual recirculation, ever returning to the heart of the tale.
Artefacts of Writing 